


Residency

by Vain



Category: Yami No Matsuei
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-28
Updated: 2005-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vain/pseuds/Vain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the final months of his residency, Muraki finds something he thought he'd lost—something that would have rather not been found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Residency

**Author's Note:**

> **Residency**  
>  By: Vain  
> 5.17.2004 - 04.28.2005
> 
> **o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own Yami no Matsuei, Kurosaki Hisoka or Muraki Kazutaka—Yoko Matsushita does. The poem used in the story is "Sympathy" by Paul Laurence Dunbar. This is a work of fandom; I am not profiting from this.
> 
>  **Summary:** During the final months of his residency, Muraki finds something he thought he'd lost—something that would have rather not been found.
> 
>  **Length:** Around 12,300 words.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Yaoi. Muraki / Hisoka. Graphic non-con NC-17. Under aged, non-consensual sex, violence, language, serious abuses of power, psychological and sexual abuse, character death, and references to torture. Not for the tender-hearted.
> 
>  **Continuity:** This story takes place before the anime and manga start, when Muraki is doing his residency. Runs on the assumption that Hisoka was thirteen when Muraki first cursed him and Muraki was doing his med training at the time. The fic starts about two years later, as Muraki finishes up his residency.
> 
>  **Notes:** Hisoka has zero personification. This is because the fic is written from Muraki's point of view and he does not view Hisoka as a person—and even if he did—he wouldn't care about his opinions one way or the other.
> 
> The word "opes" in the poem used throughout the fic has been kept to maintain authenticity—"opes" is actually the way it is written in the poem—and means "open." God bless my Fourth Edition Norton Anthology of Poetry.
> 
> This was written with love for Zanzou, to whom I promised to write a true MurSoka without pulling any punches. Hope it doesn't disappoint!
> 
> Special thanks goes to my betas, yoaikitten and thedemonprist (apologies for jumping the gun, poppet ;_; *is impatient* ), for having strong stomachs and wicked editorial eyes. They were IMMENSELY helpful, and I am more grateful than I can say.
> 
>  **PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS** & please review.

****

  


o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o  
 _  
“I know what the caged bird feels, alas!  
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;  
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,  
And the river flows like a stream of glass;  
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,  
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—  
I know what the caged bird feels!”  
_ **  
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o  
**  


_I_ had only been there a few weeks before I first saw you. I was forced to leave the other hospital. There were . . . complications. Granted, this hospital is very small . . . forgotten really, and relatively unknown, but I can appreciate a bit of obscurity when necessary. The head of staff jumped at the chance to accept me when he saw my recommendations, and they did not stop to ask any uncomfortable questions. I will have to learn to be neater as time passes. But it didn’t matter—not then, and not now; I only had four months or so left on my residency when I became aware you.

I saw your name first, crisp and black on the white paper of your chart. Kurosaki Hisoka.

At first the name was nothing more than a faint ringing in my ears . . . bile on the tip of my tongue. Or maybe not bile, but something textured, salty, and bitter. Kurosaki Hisoka. I knew that name. 

But I had to be patient. Had to wait. The Head of Surgery does not take time to give mere residents personal tours everyday, after all. I asked about you, though.

_“Moku-sensei? Who is Kurosaki Hisoka? The name sounds . . . familiar.”_

And the surgeon—the fool—simply smiled and waved the question away. _“He’s the child of a rather wealthy family. Their only child in fact. It’s really quite sad. He’s sixteen, but he’s wasting away. He’s been here for over a year, but no one has been able to discover the cause of his illness, or even what it is. Very unfortunate business, really. And such a pretty child too—tongue like a viper, though. Not very social at all. We put him back here in this hallway so that he’s out of the way; no one ever really comes back here, so no one bothers with him very much anymore except for perhaps Shudou-sensei. His parents specifically requested a more secluded, private room and, really, it’s less fuss this way. He really doesn’t have too much longer and it’s probably for the best. Even his family doesn’t come to see him anymore. Very unfortunate. Now this hall leads to the ICU. We’ve a burn patient who seems to be improving, but I would like you to have a look at him. You come so highly accredited, Muraki-kun . . .”_

So that was the end of that. I can be patient, though—it is the trait of a hunter, after all. And I do so love a good mystery. How could I have stayed away?

I waited for a week, and then two. Waited and listened for any word on this secret, this Kurosaki Hisoka. But no one seems to care about you. Most of them even seem afraid of you.

 _“He’s so . . . **creepy** ,”_ one of the nurses told me. _“It’s those eyes . . . They’re so **big** . . . And always just staring at you—_ watching _you. I heard that he doesn’t sleep. Every time someone goes in there, he’s awake. Looking at you. Really—I know I shouldn’t say this—but I’ll be happy when he dies. His family doesn’t even come to see him. He’s not a normal child. He’s unnatural. A monster.”_

I only smiled at her and wondered if I should educate her as to the true nature of ‘monsters.’ But I cannot risk another incident . . . even in a dreary little backwards hospital such as this, and especially not when I have such a curious mystery on my hands. So I ‘requested’ the graveyard shift. It’s quiet and private.

I enjoy my privacy.

It is boredom that drives me to your door tonight. The paperwork is done, the night nurse is on duty, and this hospital is so small that I am the only resident working this shift. It’s 2:35 am and the lighting in the hallway is the same sterile white that it is at 2:35 pm. It’s difficult to tell time in hospitals; nothing there ever really changes. The clipboard with your charts makes a loud clacking noise when I drop it back in the rack next to your door. The door handle is cool and hard in my hand and the door creaks lazily as I pushed it open. It closes behind me with a loud, decisive ‘click.’

Kurosaki Hisoka.

And then I see you.

_You . . ._

My pretty, perfect, porcelain doll, all laid out in virginal white and waiting for me. But you’re anything but a virgin, aren’t you? No . . . not a virgin. Never a virgin. Not when, at the tender age of thirteen, I had had you in every way possible—owned you more completely than you owned yourself. My Secret. My self-possessed, wide-eyed little doll. My Hi-So-Ka.

Your skin is still soft and paper-thin when I slide a hand down your cheek. Imagine. You. Here now. In my hospital. Truly, the gods are kind. 

Has it really been over two years?

Your eyes fly open and you gasp to see me standing above you.

Really over two years?

You try to scream, but I cover your lips with mine, take what is mine to take. Mine and mine alone. And you try to fight, try to scream, try to bite, but you know better than that—know me better than that. So all you can do was cry and choke on your own fear as I slowly sit on the bed, pull down those covers, and lick your tears away.

“If you scream, I’ll kill you,” I warn you. “If you speak without permission,”—Your eyes are so wide—“I’ll kill you.”

And then you simply go beautifully limp, trembling in my arms as I tug open your hospital robes to pet that feverish skin.

You stupid little toy. Don’t you know that you’re already dead? Dead and mine forever from the moment I claimed you. Mine and mine and mine, and you will never be free.

I run a hand down your hot skin: Adam’s apple, the hollow of your throat, chest, pert, pink nipples, solar plexus, stomach, the dip of your belly button, the waist of your pants . . . You jump and groan, eyes rolling like those of a startled horse in your terror, and I hold your hips down with my right hand, while tugging down the loose band of your hospital pants.

“Please . . . please don’t—!”

“Shhh . . .” I wrap a hand around your newly freed penis. It is small, limp and uninteresting, but we both knew how this game is played. You want this. You always wanted it. And you know you can’t fight me. 

I squeeze your hip with my right hand and slowly circle my thumb around the soft, delicate head of your shaft with my left, watching terror, pain, shame, and desire dance across your face like a ballet. Tears roll steadily down your cheeks as your arousal begins to show. Small and velvety, your testicles slowly draw themselves up towards your body. Your penis firms and slowly stiffens in my hand and I smile. You look so sad—so tragic—big, heavy tears falling down your cheeks. You should always be crying. Nothing has ever looked as glorious as you do when you cry. Sexy and innocent virginal sacrifice, unaware of the treasure in your eyes and lips and between your legs.

I smile at you gently, reassuringly, knowing that my gentleness made this all the more terrible. You love my touch, crave it, and the ease with which your body betrays you devastates you on a level that not even my magic can touch. 

But I don’t want to be gentle. Never gentle—not with you. Not when those eyes beg me to hurt you— _need_ me to hurt you. I want to pull you, rend you, tear at you, rape you. I want to fuck your little china body until blood pours out of you in waves that measure the ebb and flow of your last, terrified heartbeats.

But I do not.

This . . . _You_ are art. My art, abandoned for too long, but not forgotten. Aged like wine. I will not spoil this vintage with selfish violence. I will not ruin this work. My every touch across the head of your growing arousal is a brushstroke. I laugh softly when you begin to whine and toss your head from side to side in impotent denial. Look at you, giving yourself to me like a starved slut. 

A sob wracks you and I reward your precious suffering with a gentle squeeze, slowly dragging my hand up the length of your hard penis until your hips lift in a shallow, reluctant thrust.

You little whore . . . Look how prettily—how sweetly—you suffer for me. Look how eager you are to give yourself to me again and again and again. 

“Soon, poppet,” I whisper, breath somewhat heavy with the sensation of my own arousal. “I’ll give you what you want.” Your pale peach lips part as you gasp and pant and I inhale the heady scent of your arousal hungrily. “I know what you need. All you have to do is ask.”

I press my thumb hard on the head of your penis as my palm slides down and you arc up fully, unable to deny yourself. This is what you want. This is what you need. You deserve a reward for your brave submission. Still watching you through lidded eyes, I slowly lower my head to the leaking top of your needy erection. My right hand grips your hip with painful intensity and I gently begin to lick the pre-come off you, using only the tip of my tongue. You moan more than scream, and begin to squirm fitfully, not trying to escape, but not surrendering either. I tongue the slit of your penis, allowing the rough taste buds to pull that unforgettable essence out of you.

A flush of shame has spread from your face down to your chest and your nipples have darkened in reaction to my ministrations. The hardened buds are now a curious plum color and I long to reach up to pinch and twist and pluck them, but your straining hips demand my attention. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ve tasted them before and I will taste them again. And again and again and again. I squeeze your penis a bit harder then and slowly allow my lips to fall over the blood-flushed crown of your erection. Then I suck. Hard. My cheek hollow and my lips ache with the effort.

“Oh, _God!_ ”

Your hands, previously limp and unresisting, flutter up convulsively and grasp at my hair. I immediately jerk up and slap you, right hand still pressing you down into the thin, cheap springy mattress of the hospital bed. Your head snaps back, smacking against the metal railing of the bed, and your pupils dilate wide in terror, tears magnifying the image.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Tear stained, thin, pale, a livid red mark on your left cheek. Shattered. Gorgeous. You don’t move from where you lay and I watch you for a moment. You don’t blink, but tears trail down your cheeks, overflowing your unseeing eyes to stain the pillow. Your erection strains from between you legs, still as needy as it was a moment ago, and your hands twitch. I imagine that you want to touch yourself. Would you think of me as your short, unpracticed strokes dragged your body to climax? 

I want to see.

I release my hold on your hip and smile at the bruise that is already beginning to form where my fingers contained your urges. I gently take your right hand in my own and bring it down to your penis. I wrap your small, dapper fingers around your erection and then settle back on the bed. I press my left hand firmly against the bulge in my trousers, but the pressure is to restrain, not excite.

“Stroke yourself,” I order in a throaty whisper.

You comply readily—slow, shaky strokes rising and falling along your arousal, steady as breaths—but only your hand moves. I want more.

I stand, eyes locked on your hand as you slowly stroke yourself, and undo my own pants. I gently extricate my erection from my pants and briefs so that it is open to the air, and reach down to run a thumb over your dry lips. I slip my thumb in, forcing you to open you jaws wider, and squeeze your cheeks with my other hand, until your lips are parted invitingly. A tear hits my thumb as I remove it from your mouth and I bring it to my own lips to lick it off before bringing my hand back down to cup the back of your head. Holding you in place, I slowly force my erection past your unresisting lips.

I hiss a hard breath as the heat engulfs me. 

_Ohh!_ That’s just _perfect_ . . .

I bite my lip to force back my own gasp and slowly withdraw. My fingers curl around the smooth silk of your hair and pull your head back slightly to get a better angle. My other hand squeezes your jaws a bit more firmly, opening that warm mouth just a bit more . . .

Your hand, until then obediently continuing it ministrations on your own arousal, goes lax as I slowly thrust back into your mouth and I tug painfully at your hair in warning. 

“Don’t . . . stop . . .” My voice is breathless, but your mouth is hot and wet and the tears and saliva dripping onto your pillow make it worth it.

You try to swallow and a slow shudder moves through me at the sensation. The sob that moves through you is a promise of more. Golden innocence, ivory tears, jade coyness—my masterpiece. All so perfect under and around me. How did I ever let you go? Another sob—the vibration forces your tongue to twitch and writhe beneath my hardened flesh like a snake on fire. I push all the way in, squeezing my eyes closed as the feel of you engulfs me, and you jerk in protest, screaming and choking all at once as you struggle for air.

Disobedient toy that you are, you release your erection in distress, thin arms flailing in desperation and your jaw tenses beneath my tight grasp, trying to bite down. 

_Bad_ boy. 

I grip the back of your head tighter and squeeze your jaw painfully and push myself further down your throat, pressing your face hard into the rough material of my slacks, suffocating you. Your terror is an aphrodisiac and you thrash and writhe like a wild thing—a dying bird. Hips bucking, small crescent finger nails pushing uselessly at my hips and scratching at my hands, neck muscles bunched and straining as you try to free yourself from my firm grip. Your tongue moves around and across my erection, frantically stroking, playing, taunting with me with promises of everything you’ll let me do to you. Promises of how badly you’ve wanted this—needed this—and your throat opens and closes around me, welcoming my intrusion. I want to climb down your throat and tear you apart from the inside. I want to own you completely. 

God, have you any idea how beautiful you are?

I pull out, a teasing momentary relief; just long enough to feel you suck in a rapid, hungry breath around my erection. The cool air sends chills through me, and I can feel myself tighten in preparation, the very tip of my penis still pressed against your tongue. I grip your hair again and haul you forward, dragging you half off the bed by your head, pushing past the flimsy resistance of your tonsils, and burying myself deep inside your mouth, pressing against the back of your throat until you open impossibly wider to me, your body welcoming me while you scream around my arousal.

It is all too much. 

It isn’t enough.

A violent shudder runs through me, forcing my hips to jerk in small thrusting motions even as I grapple with your hair, forcing your body to follow my motions. Just when the concentration of heat inside me is unbearable, a cry breaks loose of my throat and then I’m coming, pushing deeper into your mouth. Darkness clouds my vision and pulses of light dance meaninglessly in the periphery. Your nails scratch at me and there’s a roaring in my ears, blocking everything but the feel of you pulling passion from me and the vibration of your hot, welcoming throat. 

A sudden, choked gasping breaks into my senses and I realize that I’m the one making the sound. I force my eyes open and drop my head to stare at you, hips still moving of their own accord in rough, short thrusts. You’ve gone limp again, body hanging halfway off the bed, arms swinging limply over the floor. Your legs are tangled in the sheets, but I can see your penis, once again limp and dull, peeking out from between the folds of white fabric. My hands on your head are the only thing supporting you and there is a puddle of white fluid on the floor, and more white drips from your mouth because you could not swallow.

I smile at you gently, my breathing slowly retuning to normal, and slowly pull my sated sex out from between your lips. My hands feel shaky and my knees are like jelly. Cold and sticky, semen and saliva clings wetly to the softened length of my penis. I allow your head to slip from my hands and you drop to the floor, right shoulder hitting with jarring force just before your head cracks against the ground with a thump. The rest of your body slides out of bed, dragging the sheets along with you like a broken marionette. 

The blow to your head seems to rouse you and you push yourself up on shaking arms and your back arches in painful heaves as you vomit. Whitish bile slips from between your bruised lips and you shudder and choke as your body rebels. I take a careful step back and watch you, ignoring the interested twitch of my penis. 

You seem to try to scream, and a spasm goes through you. I wonder if you’re even aware of me. You back away from the mess you’ve made, staring in horror at your own refuse, but you’re still tangled in the sheet so you cannot go far. When you fall, I have to laugh at your plight. Such a silly little thing, but you’re mine.

You begin to scratch at yourself, clawing at your face in a frenzy, and I cannot allow that. With a sigh, I look around for something to clean myself off with and find a dry washcloth. I carefully wipe myself off with a grimace, irritated by the feel of feel of the abrasive clothe against my sensitized flesh and your weird, gasping half screams. There are semen stains on the front of my trousers and I wonder how I’ll be able to make it back to my locker for a change of clothes without anyone noticing. I could always come up with some sort of lie of course, but there is something about our subterfuge that makes all of this all the more exciting. I’ll simply close my coat over the stains, I suppose.

I tuck myself away and then turn my attention back to you. By now you’ve just managed to break the skin and thin scratches trail down your cheeks over the bruises my fingers made where I forced your jaws open. 

Silly thing.

“You should stop that, you know. You’ll only hurt yourself.”

If anything, my voice only seems to make the situation worse. You pause and look up at me, pupils dilated wide and tears streaming down your reddened cheeks. There’s semen and bile on your chin and your nose is running a bit. For a moment your mouth works silently, lips forming meaningless words, and then you try to back away. I notice blood in your hair from where your head hit the floor.

“No. Nononononononononononono . . .” Your voice is raspy and unusually deep and you’re scrambling to get away from me, but don’t seem to understand that your back is pressed against the bed. “Nononononononononononono . . .”

I sigh and step towards you, still holding the washcloth in my hand. You scream and pull back before collapsing with a shudder. Empty-headed little thing. I step carelessly over your vomit and kneel down next to you, pulling your shaking frame into my lap. The tremors make you jerk and twitch as though electrified and I cannot help but smile at the pretty show you’ve put on for me. 

Yes. You deserve a reward.

Holding you in my lap with one hand, I fold the washcloth against the floor with the other so that a clean side is exposed. Your head lolls heavily against my shoulder.

“My poor poppet . . .”

You seem to calm slightly at the sensation of my breath against your ear. 

“My poor child . . .”

I gently wipe your face, humming quietly as I do so, wanting to soothe you—to calm you. You’re mine. Absolutely mine. And you love me just as much as you hate me. Because I know what you need. 

The semen and drool is gone and the blood fades, and I rock you for a moment until you can breathe. You sob in silence, crying for me yet again.

I drop the washcloth and gently capture your chin, tilting that angelic face back so that I can taste your tears. You squeeze your eyes tightly shut as my tongue slides over the smooth surface of your burning cheek. 

”Shhhh . . . We’re almost done . . . You’ve been a very good boy, pet . . . So very good.”

My right hand slides free of your hips and slips between your legs again. You moan and your face crumples like that of a child deprived of a sweet. Poor poppet . . .

I kiss you softly for your bravery.

“Almost done,” I croon in promise. “So close now.”

You taste like blood and semen and something sweet—the stain of me inside you—and I kiss you deeply until I’m nearly drunk from it. So sweet . . . so perfect . . . And you’ve become quite the little whore in my absence: already your erection has returned, burning in my hand like a plea. I tease the foreskin and wish I could lay you out and mark and burn you inch by inch all over again.

But you’re already marked and burning, aren’t you? The lines of my magic hum invisible and hungry along your body, feeding on your terrible needs, and the vibration of it moves like music through my body. I turn my head slightly, adjusting the angle to better kiss you, and gently begin to squeeze your penis in slow, pseudo-tender rhythm. You gasp into my mouth.

Perfect.

And then you let loose the weakest, saddest little cries I’ve ever heard as the rhythm of my tongue in your mouth and the pulse of you in my hand increases. The vibrations move through my mouth, up through my sinuses and behind my eyes like some heady, tangible scent. They slide down my throat, dry and spicy as cognac, and I break away from your over-ripened, swollen lips, lest I become drunk. The motion frees you and you turn, the sterile-smelling, honey-golden sweep of your hair brushing my cheek as you hide your face in the shelter of my throat. I can feel your fear and reluctant lust rolling off of you in waves and for a terrible moment the urge to bite you—to break the skin and unleash all of that marvelous blood, to absorb you fully into myself—almost overwhelms and I have to bite my own lip to resist damaging you so. The hot, wet feather brush of your breath at my Adam’s apple taunts me, and your hips jerk against my restraining left hand in protest.

I chuckle when I feel hot moisture against my throat and chest. Shattered, hoarse sobs break free from your mouth and then I laugh outright. 

Did you ever think for a moment that you could escape me? Did you believe for an instant that you could ever be anything but mine? My doll? My toy? My plaything? 

And what a marvelous plaything you are! Fit for velvet dresses, and perfect, plastic penny loafers, and glass dome display cases. 

I have given you a gift. 

I have wrapped you in my name and exposed the most wounded and secret places of you. 

Why do you hide such things when they are so lovely?

What a strange thing you are—a doll whose improperly molded porcelain heart beats like that of a human. . . . Whose heart beats at _my_ whim.

You cling to me tighter, body wound like a spring, hot and twitching in my arms, as shivers, sobs, and lust make you jerk like a broken marionette.

You cringe against me when I lean down to whisper in your ear: “I love you. I love you. I love you more than anyone else.” You and I both know it’s true. No one loves you at all, so I love you the most. “Hi. So. Ka.”

I shift you, still stroking your arousal as my left hand pulls at you, jerking your body until you’re sitting up and I can look you in the eyes. They look like glass. Polished. Reflective. So perfectly, beautifully terrified that such an expression cannot possibly be real. All that remains of your irises are tiny bands of green surrounding wide, wide pupils that display nothing but my reflection. I watch myself smile in them and my right hand squeezes and _twists_ around you. “Come for me?”

A violent shudder wracks you, hurts you, and you obey me with a defeated whine. The knowledge of how completely I own you shines in your eyes in the form of tears. The air around us thickens with the scent of you as you spill over my hand. But your body is far too weak to process such sensations and goes limp in my arms, those shining glass eyes rolling back into your head even as your velvet lashes slowly close. The action reminds me of a wind up toy shutting down.

I hold you for a long moment, the idea of slapping you awake to continue is more than a little tempting, but it would not do to strain you. I don’t want this to end prematurely, after all. Besides: you’re dying. A small amount of leeway is not inappropriate, I think.

It is a small matter to clean you up and carefully tuck you into bed once more. A glamour to hide the bruises from your day time doctor. A bandage about the head. I will have to tell the nurse that you fell out of bed and I tended to you. It will be enough. Places like this do not care for people—not really. 

The taste and feel of your energy hums through me. It had not been my intention to feed from you—you have little energy to spare—but proximity alone seems to activate the spell. I will have to be careful not to get too greedy; too much of this little game and your heart will give out before I am prepared. 

Another spell then . . . Just in case. It’s nothing serious or detrimental—merely something to help me monitor you. Immediately the sound of your heartbeat fills my ears. Even though you’re asleep it sounds frantic; fluttering desperately inside you as though trying to escape. I wonder if it will slow down before it stops, or burst like an over inflated balloon. It must ache terribly inside you, for it to sound so frenzied. The last thing I do before I go is kiss you, inhaling your shallow breath as you exhale. The taste is brief, but sweet, and it sustains me as I continue my rounds for the night, the sound of your heart thundering in the back of my mind.

  


**  
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o  
**  


It is late. A little bit past three am.

_“Would you like me to shift you from the night shift, Muraki-kun?”_

_“Thank you, director, but if it is not a hardship, I find I work best at night. I have always been something of a night owl.”_

_Laughter. A firm clap on the shoulder. His touch is offensive. “Well, far be it for me to disturb your routine. The night nurses have done nothing but praise you since the moment you arrived. Our incidents are down 19 percent when you are on duty. All of the patients love you.”_

_“You’re too kind, sir. I am only doing my duty.”_

_“I see great things in your future, Muraki-kun. Great things indeed.”_

I undo the buttons of my shirt as I enter, shrugging anxiously out of my coat. I’m tired. I want to see you.

I want to play.

_“Even the Kurosaki boy seems to be quite taken with you.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“Yes. Nurse Takigawa said that you have taken an interest in the boy. You sit with him at night?”_

_“. . . Yes. He can be quite . . . charming.”_

_“You must be the only one that thinks so. Even Shudou can only take so much of him.”_

_“Shudou-sensei?”_

_“The day shift doctor. If it wasn’t for him, I doubt anyone would busy themselves with the boy. He seems to be troublesome.”_

_“I see.”_

_“He doesn’t sleep, you know,” the director murmurs abruptly. “Or perhaps he wakes whenever he thinks anyone is around.”_

_“He sleeps when he is tired.”_

_“Still . . .” A sidelong glance. “He is a . . . strange child.”_

_“Yes. But he is still only a child.”_

You’re propped up against the pile of pillows I’ve been steadily purloining for you. I like to see you nestled in pillows. You look like a doll. A toy to be given to some sick child as proof that even something whose only value is aesthetics can suffer. The muted, pale after-hours lighting falls on you and creates strange shadows in the gentle hollow of your throat and cheeks. I made an excellent decision in you. The curse was perfect—a work of art. Your beauty will remain as untainted as the night we met beneath the sakura, even as your body eats itself alive from the inside out. The small, permanent twist of pain between your brows is exquisite. You stare down at the sheet and refuse to look at me as I pull the door shut behind me. Intimate as we are, your continued coyness never ceases to arouse me.

It has been seven weeks since I rediscovered you. Seven weeks since you wept as you gave me your passion and I have had you nearly every night since. 

The depth of human ineptitude never ceases to amaze me. Have they not noticed any change in you at all? Or perhaps you have not changed. You waited for me for so long, perhaps you no can longer change. Dolls never change. I seemed to have forgotten that until I found you. You are a doll. Dolls never fade. Never grow old. Never do anything but sit on the shelf until it is time to play. You are like that—always waiting for me. You try to fight—to deny it—but this is our game. A toy soldier only marches where the General orders, and a marionette only dances as the strings lead, and so you too only play the game as I desire. 

Admit it. When I come to you at night and brush off the dust and cobwebs of the day, when I make you weep and scream, and push myself into your mouth and your body and watch you writhe around and beneath me . . . You’re grateful. You love it.

You whimper and shrink back into your pillows as I carelessly throw my coat to the floor. My tie and shirt quickly follow suit. I have nothing to fear. No one comes here anymore. I want to feel you.

A doll exists only to be played with.

Do you like to play with me, doll?

Do you want to play with me?

You like it when I touch you. When I push things inside of you. When I tell you to beg and when I tell you to be silent. You like it when I give you your reward and at last, at last, at last allow your filth to spill into the open air and temporarily stain your pale skin a different shade of white. You like it. You need it.

You need _me_.

My beautiful doll . . .

Seven weeks. And you’re always waiting. Always eager. Always willing to play.

Play the virgin for me, pet. Do you remember how? No? Then play the whore for me, pet. You’re so much better at that one anyway. 

I like how much you hate yourself when you beg. I want to hear you scream. But you can’t, can you? Not here. Not when we could be caught. Do you think anyone would care if they caught us?

No.

Even in a backwards place such as this, they all know what a horrid thing you are.

 _“It’s those eyes . . . They’re so **big** . . . And always just staring at you—_ watching _you. I heard that he doesn’t sleep. Every time someone goes in there, he’s awake. Looking at you. Really—I know I shouldn’t say this—but I’ll be happy when he dies. His family doesn’t even come to see him. He’s not a normal child; he’s unnatural. A monster.”_

That is why you need me. I love you. I will protect you. I will save you from all of them and I will own you. I will always have time to play with you, Veronica. 

I will always have time for my toys.

_“Well, Muraki-kun, whatever you are doing, please continue. The boy has become much less oppositional since your arrival. Just be sure not to get too attached.”_

_“Director?”_

_“The boy_ is _dying, after all. There’s no sense in investing oneself in a lost cause.”_

_This time I laugh. “You say he is dying as though it were the end of all things.”_

_He pauses in the hallway and turns to look at me._

_I cannot help but smile at his ignorance. “Death is only the beginning, sir.”_

  


**  
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o  
** _  
“I know why the caged bird beats his wing  
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;  
For he must fly back to his perch and cling  
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;  
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars  
And they pulse again with a keener sting—  
I know why he beats his wing!”  
_ **  
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o  
**  


Spent and laying beside you in the narrow bed, I gently kiss your forehead. There is not even a twitch of reaction. Where did the fear go?

It faded. Became too banal and commonplace to be sustained, I suppose. Now all you do is lay very still and allow me to touch you and arrange your limbs as I please. Marvelous. I still like it best when you cry, though; you never seem to run out of tears. Livid, reddish tracts stains your face even now, mingled with the sweat of our exertions. I can taste it against my lips. Occasionally you even find the strength to fight . . . Usually after what the second shift nurse calls your “good days,” when you feel strong enough to remember that I have put you in this bed. Or perhaps you are remembering all the things that I have done and will do to you in this bed. 

It is ours, you know. Our bed. Our room. Our time. You taste like flower blossoms and being inside you is the sweetest oblivion as you clench and twitch around me, your perpetual low-grade fever making your body burn even hotter. You’re so hot. So tight. I don’t want this to end. 

Perhaps I should have kept you longer that night. Taken you with me. Dressed you in umber and blood and sealed you in a glass display. You bear a striking resemblance to Saki, you know . . . You even smell like him. Your mouth tastes like his did—tastes like the essence of me inside you. There’s more, though. It’s something about the eyes, I think. The narrow, elfin point of your chin. The small, bird-like bones in your wrists and hands. But Saki was greater than you—bigger and stronger than you. Still . . . I can see him in your eyes. The way you watch me. You should not look at me like that—it makes me hurt you.

On the nights when I see him there, you scream long and loud, the sound usually muffled in the mountain of pillows I’ve brought for you. I spoke to the director this morning about bringing in some flowers to liven up the room a bit. I will always remember you at your best when you fought against me beneath the sakura. I will clip a branch from the tree outside the hospital tomorrow night. They’re so dark, they’re almost red. I think, as our time passes and your time runs out, they seem to be getting even redder. I can smell the blossoms on your skin underneath the scent of antiseptic. 

The hospital’s completely given up on treating you, you know. Just a heavy dose of Percocet every four hours. Apparently, these people cannot fully appreciate how delightful you look when you’re in the throes of agony. Personally, however, I don’t desire that you be so distracted during our limited time together. I have other ways to make you writhe. And I don’t like the Percocet—it makes you sedated and you act too disorganized. I prefer you lucid and whimpering. I don’t give the drugs to you at night. It is a simple matter to suppress the curse so that I have your full attention during our play time. Besides . . . it is also far too entertaining to watch the synthetic, vacant expression drain from your eyes as the pain returns. When I am inside you, I want you to _feel_ it.

Don’t you feel me? Hear me? In your head? Behind your eyes? Between your ears? Filling you up inside?

I can hear _you_. Your heartbeat sounds in my ears; it is faster than mine. One day soon, you’re going to _pop_.

As though hearing my thoughts, you turn your face away from me. Avert your eyes. It irritates me. I want to see you. 

I can feel my eyes narrow.

I want to see your face.

I can hear the hum of the air conditioning and your weak, shallow breaths as you drag in gasp after long, slow gasp. In the back of my mind, your heartbeat flutters, skips, and then returns to its usual, irregular staccato. I stare at your profile for a moment before pulling slightly away from you.

Your entire body goes rigid as I prop myself up on my left elbow and evaluate you with false concern. Stupid thing.

“Did they think you were malingering?”

The question takes you off guard and your heart skips a beat. I smile. You never speak to me beyond a half-hearted plea or cry. I didn’t think I needed you to speak. Children should keep silent and do as they’re told. 

But somehow, tonight—with you so very close to the edge—I want to hear you speak. I pull you closer to me with my right hand. You’re so tiny. So light. It is like shifting a feather. 

You keep your head turned to the left, eyes locked on the far wall. I run a finger down your chest, over a swollen, abused nipple, and across the gentle swell and dip of your visible ribs. So pretty. So delicate. You’re like a bird—a caged bird. You sing so prettily. Let me hear you now. 

“Did you tell anyone? What I did to you that night?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and your breath hitches as my hand slides down to your bruised thighs. The spell I wove around you hides the bruises. It’s similar to the one that conceals your curse marks, but weaker. I think it’s quite a pity. I would like to see you in blue, black, yellow, and green relief. Besides, the only one to hide them from is your day doctor—he’s the only one who sees you other than me—but I have to finish my time here. No more laziness.

I distract myself momentarily with your foreskin before returning to the topic at hand. “Who found you the next day on the lawn? A servant?”

Your heartbeat speeds up in my ears as my hand continues to play with you, stroking, plucking and pulling at you as though you were an instrument of some sort. I will make you sing for me one way or another.

“Did they think you were lying? Did they care?”

Your length hardens in my hand and you whimper, a violent shudder moving through you.

Look at me.

“Did you tell them how I caught you? How you pleaded? How you eventually _begged_? Did they laugh?”

_Look at me._

I squeeze you painfully and relish the short cry that emerges. 

You are _nothing_.

“ _Look at **me**._ ”

And then your head turns slowly, as though on a rusted swivel, and your eyes are enormous beneath a sheen of tears. I smile and bend my neck slightly to kiss you. Marvelous.

“Tell me,” I whisper against your lips. You try to turn away again, but my hand comes up to capture your chin gently and force your eyes back to mine. Your heart thunders like a bass drum in my ears and your chest is rising and falling almost spastically. Your soft, heavy puff of breath breezes lightly over my face and past my lips. I smile again and lean down just a bit more until our foreheads are pressed together. And those glass dolls eyes of yours are enormous. You try in vain to pull away, and only succeed in pressing yourself back against the pillows. The fear is back.

“Tell me.” The scent of you almost undoes me. I squeeze your chin tighter to ground myself. “Tell me, or I will rip your heart out.”

A single, crystalline tear makes its way down you left cheek.

I pull back just enough to retrace its progress up from you chin and back to the top of your cheek. Another one slides down your right cheek, and I lick that one away, too. The taste of the saline is both bitter and curiously sweet. I kiss each of your eyelids in turn as a few more tears escape. Perfect. 

I leave a trail of kisses down your cheeks and move to you chin, bypassing the lips altogether. Then down your throat to the hollow of your collarbone. I lick a long, slow line up your sternum and back to your chin. You tilt your head back and a sob moves up your chest along with me, vibrating through your entire body.

Just before the sound can erupt from you, I kiss your lips gently and pull back to stare down at your flushed, pained face again. “Now, poppet . . .” You shiver violently. “I told you to keep silent. I told you not to tell. Did you tell anyone? Did you tell them what we did that night? Our night?”

Slowly your head shakes as you stare up at me. “N—no . . .” Your voice is rough and hoarse and your heart sounds as though it’s going to burst.

I am getting tired of hearing that word from you when you are always so obviously lying. 

“Oh?” I reach round you and grasp your left hand in my right and bring it to the center of your body. The tears resume. “And what did you tell them, then?” Keeping my hand over yours, I push both down between your closed thighs. Your legs immediately open as the old bruises are aggravated. 

“I di—didn’t—” 

It’s so hard for you to breathe, isn’t it?

You suddenly emit a small, choked scream and jerk upwards as both our hands wrap around your flagging erection. You tremble violently, but don’t dare move your hand from my grip as you touch yourself, speed and pressure changing at my whim. Sing for me, little bird.

I drop my head, burying my face in the slope of your neck, and lap gently at the faint sheen of sweat on your skin. “Sing for me.”

_Oniisama._

I grip your hand in my own tighter, squeezing those fragile digits. Crushing you. Your body is so hot. So hot.

Your voice is bell-like when you cry out, sharp and clear, and the sound moves through me like a wave. Or perhaps that’s the feel of the sobs wracking you. 

“Oh God, please stop!”

_Kamisama . . ._

I can feel the heat of your tears melting into the nape of my neck. It makes me want to laugh. “God?” I raise my head and smile at the absolute _anguish_ on your face. Art. “God doesn’t care, poppet.”

I want to tear it off.

Your back arches in response, lifting you off the bed in a lovely arc. “ _Ahh!_ ”

Such lovely, lovely tears you shed for me.

“It h—hurts!”

Does it? I told you not to look at me like that—like _he_ did.

Then you come, hard, fast and hot in my hand, and I fancy I can see a stain of pink in the otherwise white splatter of your essence.

I can see the cracks these days, pet. You’re falling apart at the seams.

But it seems I have gone a bit too far tonight. I already wore you out earlier, didn’t I? Now you can’t even move. That’s alright, though: you’re useless and broken and stupid, but you’re mine and so I’ll love you all the same. I want you in silks and plastic. I want to see you in nothing but sakura and moonlight. 

Instead, I content myself with gently running my pointer finger over the invisible curse marks. It’s still evolving, my little spell—growing into something beyond even my expectations. Even after you die, you’ll still be mine. Your ashes, your bones in the earth, your very _soul_ . . . All of it is marked and stained by me. My name is etched into your very essence and as long as anything of you remains, it will be mine. _You_ will be mine. Always. Always. Always.

Mine.

What will happen to you, I wonder, when you are called for the final judgment? You cannot go to Heaven. You cannot go to Hell. Neither can accept you, given the markings you bear. Only _I_ have claim on you. In this—in _you_ , I have usurped God and the Devil both. No, your God does not care poppet. Only me. You only have me now.

What will become of you when you die and I leave you behind?

Will you wait for me, a dusty toy in the attic, wondering when your master will return to play? Will you miss me?

I sigh and disentangle myself from the limp, sweaty sprawl of your immature limbs. As I stand, the thought lingers. Something about it weighs heavily upon me. You were to be my masterpiece. A pretty death for such a pretty, pretty boy. A plain death would not do, you know. Not when your eyes were so bright and your skin so soft and white and your face so much like that of someone I will never forget and _never_ forgive. Not when fucking you was like owning him, and owning you was like catching the wind in the palm of your hand. I couldn’t let go, but I had to. I had to because there was a magic in that place to rival my own, and it wanted you. So I took what I could and left you bleeding amidst the dying flower petals. Whatever darkness that dwells in the House of Kurosaki may have wanted you, but it will never have you.

No one will.

Still, I cannot shake the growing unease I feel as I retrieve a cloth and wet it in the tiny bathroom adjacent to your room. I wash myself down first—ridding my body of the scent of your sweat and sex with rough strokes of the washcloth and skin-drying antiseptic soap. Strangely enough, even after such rough treatment, I do not feel any cleaner. It is as though this glimmer of a fear has taken up residence somewhere inside me. I cannot help but wonder if it isn’t you.

This is an unnecessary feeling, though. Unwelcome. Unwarranted. You were never supposed to get inside me. For a fraction of an instant, I feel bewildered and namelessly bereft. The world seems to stop spinning for a second, while I have continued moving. I gasp and as the sound echoes off the too close walls, the feeling abandons me as suddenly as it appeared. 

What was I worried about? What have I to fear? To lose? Nothing. This is all nothing. No matter how the curse grows, it will not change in nature. The curse was designed to bind you to me. As it slowly eats your life force, so it feeds mine. When you die, that feed will cease, but the elements that mark you as mine will remain. I have nothing to be concerned about.

It is decided, then. I return to your bed. You’re still laying as I left you, and it is a small matter to gently wipe you down and attempt to situate your body a bit more properly. I was correct, though. There is blood mixed with your semen. 

I pause for a moment and stare down at you. You look like a mannequin. Your skin is cool and ashen. I can see the weak, sickening blue of your veins . . . roadmaps of insufficient blood flow to your weak limbs. Your chest rises, halts, and then falls with neither rhythm nor grace, and your eyes—always open, always staring—are shiny, but lacking luster. Cold. Empty. 

The director was right. You don’t sleep.

Instead, you wait for me to return. And I always return.

The urge to gather you in my arms suddenly overwhelms me. I would take you away. Surround you with sakura and orchids and bluebells to smother the odor of death. I would pump you full of magic until the cord of your life was stretched so thin, it became impossible to break. I would . . .

Do nothing.

Nothing.

I have only a few weeks left on my residency. I will not jeopardize them over a toy, no matter how pretty it may be. 

I return to the bathroom and rinse off the washcloth. Pink and cloudy white ruin the clear water. It takes three more trips before you are satisfactorily clean. Then I sit on the bed and carefully manipulate your body until I’ve once again folded you back into the offensive blue of your hospital gown. I pull back the sheets, lift you up from my lap again and then tuck you in. Your eyes watch me the whole time, wide and vacant. I want to cover them with my hand, but choose to get dressed instead. I will be late getting to the rest of my patients. I will be too late . . .

The thought fades into a swirl of nothingness as my fingers struggle with my belt buckle. Eventually the clasp slips into the eye and the leather band settles snugly about my waist.

You’re still watching me.

I don’t want to meet your eyes. Why do I feel disturbed? Why do I feel . . . as though I have left something behind? Forgotten something important? Why do I feel this strange weight beneath my breastbone? How has this sudden thing come upon me? I shake my head to clear it. I have to administer Aoe-san’s amoxicillin in ten minutes. I have to leave. 

In any case, it is not as though you are going to go anywhere. You’re mine, even if I am not here to claim you. Besides, I’d rather you rot alone in an attic until your plastic skin hardens and cracks and your glass eyes become clouded by dust than belong to anyone else.

No matter what happens, you are mine. Always.

“Tomorrow I will bring you flowers,” I say as I pull on my coat. 

I look around carefully to make sure I’m not leaving anything behind. Your wide eyes track me and I cannot help but smile as you attenuate to my every move. The weight within me lifts slightly as you follow every shift of direction—every breath. You’re obsessed with me. Your world revolves around me. You would be lost without me.

I head towards the door, but then pause, the feel of your eyes on my back like a living thing, clinging to me. I turn, one hand on the knob, and smile at the exposed and wounded thing that you are.

Poor little doll.

“I’ll bring you cherry blossoms,” I promise. My eyes take in the small room and I sneer slightly. “This place smells of death.”

As I leave, I know that you will still be staring after me long after the door has closed.

  


**  
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o  
**  


On that last night, when the call button was screaming like a living thing and the doctor’s scrub-bound feet squeaked too loudly on the brightly polished floors, you were in agony. It was evening. I was just starting and the day shift was just rotating out. I found myself running to your room before I was aware of it. I don’t know why I even came.

The doctor—your Shudou-sensei?—is holding your wrists and as a nurse flutters anxiously about with a cold compress, unable to approach you as you thrash and howl on the bed, mad with pain. I come into the room—an afterthought in the panic—and something inside me twists and clenches to see them _touching_ you . . . _holding_ you.

How dare they touch my things.

How dare they think to fix what I had so carefully broken.

You are _my_ doll, and I was _not_ done playing.

A nurse I can’t place jumps back as you flail, hitting your nightstand hard. The motion knocks a vase of adonis and asclepia flowers to the ground. The crash is barely audible over your cries. 

I watched as they restrain you. Five-point ties going around your small wrists and ankles, and your narrow waist. They stretch and pull at your pale flesh, coming oh-so-close to breaking the skin but never quite making it. The nurse, unable to bear your shrieks any longer, flees past me out the door, her hand over her mouth. When I turn back to you, I see why: your markings . . . They seem to be _burning_.

“Oh, God!” Shudou-sensei pulls back away from your bed. “What the hell is that?”

You toss your head wildly to the side, delicate neck muscles bulging and straining as though you could end the pain by denying it. Your skin is ashen and covered in a layer of sweat. I want to restrain the curse, but it is fascinating to see. I’ve never watched one of your fits before. It’s amazing. Your entire body jerks and writhes, an enthralling symphony of movement accompanied by an array of moans, groans, and shrieks I had never dreamed you capable of producing. I thought that I had coaxed every possible sound of pain from your lips, but these . . . these gasps, these whimpers, these screams . . . the intonation was new. These are not the cries of our games or the wails of our night beneath the cherry trees. These are blood drenched screams. Loud, unstoppable protest against a pain that will not relent, will not cease, and will never set you free. 

Your heartbeat is in my ears, a Taiko drum, and I suddenly understand: this is how you spend your days. When night comes, you have no voice left. When night comes, I am your only respite.

Your lips are red and stretched wide, displaying your small, perfect teeth and your entire body arches up in a bow. The marks burn on your body, moving everywhere, shifting like living things. 

Shudou grabs the last remaining nurse and propels her towards the door. “Call the director! Now! Tell him that Kurosaki is having one of his fits—the worst yet!”

The woman dashes out without a backwards glance, and Shudou hurriedly gestured for me to come over. “Hold him down, Muraki-kun.” He turns away from the thrashing boy to a tray that someone had brought in when I wasn’t paying attention. 

The entire bed jerks with the strain of your exertions. I cautiously approach you as he fills a needle. 

Morphine.

The man whirls, dark eyes flashing when he sees that I have not yet touched you. “Damnit, I said hold him down!”

But I cannot. I can’t touch you. I don’t want to. Touching you now . . . it would ruin this. This is the final act of our play, and it is time for the puppeteer to stand aside and see if the doll can manage on its own.

If I open the cage, will the bird fly free? Or is it too broken?

“Muraki!”

Can you still fly, poppet?

And then you suddenly still. Your chest moves up and down like a bellows and the painful sound of your breathing somehow sounds even louder in contrast to your previous screams. Shudou stands frozen, breathing unnecessarily hard, eyes locked on you. Your heart sounds slow and uncharacteristically steady in my ears. Even the energy flow between us—one so commonplace that I don’t even notice it anymore—even that seems stronger right now. Your curse marks have vanished, we can both still feel them. It is a brief respite and you know it as well as I do. This is the end. Three years, and now it pushes you to completion.

I have only been here for three months, but I do not think I am ready to give up my game.

. . . And yet it seems I have taken away my own options. How short-sighted of me. I will have to do better next time.

Shudou looks to me, as though expecting some sort of explanation, but before he can ask the question he so obviously has on the tip of his tongue, the nurse comes back in. We both turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I see you watching me. The nurse’s face is both pale and flushed and she avoids looking at your bed. 

“The director—” her tongue trips over the words. “The family has ordered that all care be stopped at once.”

Shudou squeezes the needle in his hand so tightly I’m amazed the plastic doesn’t rupture. “What?!”

The nurse staggers back and her eyes dart to me for help. I remain silent. I want them to leave. I want to fuck you. 

“The family . . .” Her voice is a whisper. “The family says that they want to terminate all care. The director agreed. We’re to stop—”

“He’ll die!” And Shudou looks momentarily dramatic and righteous, as though he had some sway over your life and death. As though _he_ had some right to _meddle_. 

At my side, my hands clench into fists.

Can’t they see that you’re awake?

_“He doesn’t sleep, you know.”_

The nurse slowly tries to creep closer to me and I take a step away. Towards you. I don’t want her to touch me. She’s filthy and stupid. She wouldn’t put up a fight . . . Not like you did. Not for three years. My desertion only flusters her further. “The director—”

“I will not just stand by and let a child die!” Shudou hisses. 

The nurse opens her mouth, but I intercede, weary of this backwoods medicine man’s grandstanding. I turn to him carefully and force my voice to remain neutral. “Perhaps it is for the best.”

Shudou flushes heavily, making the man look like an overfed bloodworm. He uses a low, patient tone reserved for small children and it is only the looming thought of the end of my residency that stops me from tearing out his spine through his chest. No more incidences. I cannot afford any more attention. 

“Muraki-kun, you may not be aware of this because Kurosaki has never before had a fit while you have been on shift, but the severity of his attacks will only escalate as the night wears on. The painkillers and muscle relaxants calm him considerably. Kurosaki needs—”

The nurse saves his life before he can continue. “Muraki-san has been with Kurosaki almost every night he works! He is well familiar with the child’s condition.”

I know what you _need_. He doesn’t. That he would have the _audacity_ — 

Shudou turns his ineffective glare to her and she steps back. “Then he should be standing with me instead of arguing.” The man turns, needle poised. The world seems to slow.

_Don’t you touch it._

I can hear your heartbeat in my ears.

_Don’t you touch it._

I can hear you breathing. Shudou raises the needle.

_Don’t you touch it._

I can feel you through the curse, feel your fear. Your terror. I can feel your life force, cringing in some distant corner of your psyche.

_Don’t you touch it._

I grab hold of it—bend my powers towards it.

_It’s **mine**._

He touches you.

And I crush you.

Just as he grips your bound wrist, your head snaps violently back and your spine arches high off the bed, breaking the restraint. The moment freezes and I see you in perfect Warhollian relief. The too-bright light highlights your skin the moment the marks flare and I heard a dull ‘ _pop_ ’ in my ears just before a candy-red splatter of hyper oxygenated blood bursts from your mouth and nose and hangs breathlessly in the air. Your wide green eyes stare straight forward, horrified knowledge in them as they see the small crimson spray. 

And then the moment ends. The nurse screams. You collapse back on the bed as the blood falls onto your chest and face, offering vivid contrast to your skin. A swell of power comes surging through the bond between us, but I grab hold of it and force it back, ramming it back into your body before your soul can escape and temporarily reanimate your corpse.

Your mouth remains open and a strangled, choking noise emerges, as though you’re trying to speak through some thick obstruction. In my mind, your momentarily still heartbeat resumes, but it is a strange ragged noise: unnatural and maintained only by the magic I’m using to pump some of your life force back to you.

Belatedly, Shudou jerks his hand back as though death were contagious. I drag my eyes away from you obvious agony as my magic draws out the pain of your death and I stare at him. This is his fault. He shouldn’t have touched you. Only _I_ decide when this game ends.

He stares back at me; a plain, powerless man, utterly forgettable and unimportant.

His mouth moves, but I beat him to the punch. “What have you done to him?”

The doctor’s eyes widen. “I didn’t—”

I look away from him to the nurse. It’s impossibly easier to sway the weak-minded chit. I stare at her long and hard, forcing the thoughts into her, twisting the scene and reconnecting the dots for her in the span of a second. _The needle. He injected him. The argument. He’s been hurting the boy. Do an autopsy. He’s been raping him for months. He killed him._ A hint of a suggestion and her eyes go even wider and she stares at her superior in terrified accusation. “Shudou-sensei, what have you done?!”

The needle falls from the doctor’s hand and he looks wildly between us while you lay twitching and attempting to scream through blood-filled lungs. 

“I only touched him!!”

The confirmation is all the nurse needs and she scurries out the door, crying for someone to phone the director.

Shudou stares at me in confusion for an instant before turning helplessly back to you, but I stop him with a word, stepping closer to your bedside to drive him back. “Don’t touch him, sensei. I imagine the director will want to see you regarding your conduct over the last few months.”

Those plain, boringly oriental eyes widen and he look like a man who suddenly awoken in a strange country and does not know how he got there. I can’t help but smile. _Shouldn’t have touched it._

“What are you talking about, Muraki-kun?! This boy needs medical attention—”

The words dry up in his mouth when I lean over the bed towards the bewildered man while sliding a hand into your too-loose pant and touching you. Weak as you are, you jerk at the familiar feel of my fingers wrapping around your shame.

Mine.

Shudou staggers away until he runs into the metal tray set up behind him. He looks pale. But you’re so much paler. I want to look at you, but his shock is too amusing. 

“Muraki . . .”

I smile pleasantly. “I know what kind of attention the boy needs.”

I’ve always known.

I want to see you burn with shame, but you’re so very close to the line now . . . so close. I can feel the looming darkness through you and it wants you. But you’re mine, even in death. I can’t stop smiling.

Shudou takes one look and flees after the nurse. No one will believe him. The nurse will see to that, and I will see to the rest. The stupid man shouldn’t have dropped the needle. It will be a small matter to replace it with an empty one with traces of something else inside. The police love nothing more than a nice, easily solved case. I wonder how the hospital will recover from the loss. Perhaps when my residency is complete, they will be in the market for a new full time doctor.

You’re hot in my hand and I smile down at you. Your face is flushed, tear-streaked, blood spattered and the hatred that glows in your eyes is breathtaking. 

I laugh in your face while your heartbeat staggers in my ears. “You know, bouya . . . He shouldn’t have touched you. You’re mine.”

And then your lips move, but they are not trying to scream like I originally thought; instead you’re trying to speak to me for the first time since this little game has begun. Somehow the idea intrigues me and I bend slightly just in time to catch the faint gasp of your blood-soaked whisper: “ _. . . **hate** you . . ._ ”

Something inside me coils and clenches at the words and, for a fraction of an instant, I’m tempted to reach out and crush that fragile throat and silence you for good. But then the moment passes and I take my hand out of your pants to grab your chin instead. “Hate me all you want, doll,” I whisper against your lips, “but you are still mine.” Your eyes never waver as we gaze at one another. I lick your upper lip lightly once, tasting the sticky, cooling blood there. “You’ve got me inside you,” I whisper in your mouth. “You _are_ me.” You try to pull away. I won’t let you go, though. Not now. Not ever. “And so you _love_ me.”

I crush my mouth to yours, tasting you, loving you, as I plunder your mind. I tear through you like a storm and excise every memory of me from you. I take our night. I take our bed. I take our room. I take our time. I take it all until there’s nothing left but the hatred. Until you’re drowning in it and your dead body is trying to fight me, reject me. But you can’t.

We are the same now, you and I. 

And then I take back my power and those last straining vestiges of your life force. I look you in the eyes while we kiss. I want you to see. I want you to remember _me_ , even if you have no memory left to put it into context. Your eyes are still open when you go still and the final swell of power comes back to me. You breathe your last breath into my mouth and your hot skin becomes dull and cold beneath my fingertips. I taste death inside you and think of your name by way of recognition.

I can hear them now. People coming. Running. More action than this pathetic excuse for a hospital has seen in years, I’ll wager. I shift, unwilling to leave your mouth, feigning CPR. They’re coming. They’re almost here. I breath into you and your chest is forced up like that of a practice dummy. Your blood is on my cheek and in my mouth. 

I pull away to push down on your chest and the room is suddenly filled with people. You don’t breathe, of course—dolls don’t need CPR—but I go down again for one more taste. Hold the nose. Tilt back the head. Adjust the spine. In with the good air. Your corpse shares my breath one last time. I stand again. Out with the bad.

The director pulls me away, drawing me out of the room with condolences and congratulations and ‘ _did you know that Shudou was hurting the poor child?_ ’ And I shake my head as I feign shock in place of the curious numbness I feel right now. I turn and the last thing I see as I am ushered away is your limp, twisted body laying crumpled in the bed, arms and leg contorted against the restraints. The door closes.

I can still hear them talking. _“Poor Muraki-san.” “Trying to save that boy’s life the whole time we were out there.” “He was probably too worried to push the call button.” “He really was terribly fond of the boy.”_

I’m taken to the deserted lounge where the director sits me in a chair before going off to get me some coffee. I hate the stuff, but drink it anyway.

The older man sits down and looks at me sadly for a moment. “I told you not to get too attached to the boy.” He shakes his head. “The security guards are holding Shudou-sensei at the front desk until the police arrive. To think that something like that could happen in place like this . . . I never would have believed the man capable of such a thing . . . At least you and Takigawa-san caught him. Such a pity that the boy had to suffer so much, though.” He drops his head and shakes it sadly. “Such a pity.”

I look up from my coffee and stare at him coldly for a while. Finally I place it on the table in front of us and stand. “I told you before, director. Death is really only the beginning.” 

The man looks at me, startled, but I don’t care. I have other things to attend to . . . like making sure Shudou is handled properly. Your body will already be gone by the time I return, but that is alright. It is only a shell. The real you—what is left of you—is still somewhere close at hand, even if I can no longer hear your heartbeat.

I do not think this is a loss . . . I never lose. Besides, I can still feel you: your soul bound to mine for eternity. We will meet again in either this life or the next. I can afford to let go—just for a little bit. After all . . . you’re mine, poppet. My tin soldier, always ready for his orders. Ready to march as I please. Ready to be Veronica or Oniisama or anyone else I want, as long as I touch you the way you know you like it. 

You are a trifle, but you’re mine and even if you hate me, you love me, so I love you too. And—when you love something—it will always come back to you.

  
**  
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o  
** _  
“I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,  
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—  
When he beats his bars and he would be free;  
It is not a carol of joy or glee,  
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,  
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—  
I know why the caged bird sings!”  
_ **  
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**  


  
**~ Fin**  


  
**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o  
**  



End file.
